


Pierre de Lune

by Harker13, Masamune7



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Character Death, Crying, Death, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Edgeplay, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Grief/Mourning, Hurt John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, Kid Sherlock Holmes, Licking, M/M, Masturbation, Men Crying, Protective Mycroft, Sad, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Stabbing, Young Mycroft Holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 19:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21141842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harker13/pseuds/Harker13, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masamune7/pseuds/Masamune7
Summary: Kinktober 18: BloodKinktober 19: Double Penetration (mild... penis/hand... sorry)Kinktober 20: MasturbationKinktober 21: EdgingKinktober 22: CryingSherlock was right, the world was going to be a horribly dark place from now on without John Watson in it.





	Pierre de Lune

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, a few notes!
> 
> 1.- I made this with my tears... all by myself.  
2.- I know it is not quite double penetration, sorry!  
3.- I know a little more "prep" for the sex would be nice, I write this stuff running against the clock, sorry again!  
4.- Thanks for reading!

_It had been 25 hours, 4 minutes and 27 seconds since the death of John Watson. _

_He had been held captive for two days. Lestrade and Sherlock were at opposite sides of the city, following a single clue that didn’t provide enough information to estimate how much time they were left to rescue him. The constant ticking in Sherlock’s mind clock only made it worse, analysing more scenarios than those humanly possible to occur. He simply could not force his mind to focus on the most viable option. He knew he was working with borrowed time._

_After the first twelve hours of search, Greg Lestrade realized even with the entire police force at his disposal, he would never cover enough to speed up the search. After twelve hours and thirty minutes, Lestrade drew his wildcard: he called Mycroft Holmes to expand the search. This was not a favour, it a was a desperate measure and their last prayer for help._

_John had been bleeding for a long time when Mycroft found him, he despised field work but if by any chance it was too late, he needed to see it with his own eyes. He learnt to appreciate John Watson’s existence and he could even say he considered something more than a simple acquaintance. This time there was not plan B, C, D or any other of the thirteen possibilities he had sorted in a folder at his top-drawer desk when Sherlock made the fall. His hurried steps echoed throughout the dark corridor until he and the security team reached a metal door._

_John was on the verge of consciousness when Mycroft untied and held him firmly, easing both down to the floor._

_______________________________

**Hour 26:00:00:00 – 221B Baker Street:**

_“Fuck you, Mycroft!... You and your poorly orchestrated caring sibling act!” – _shouted Sherlock

_“Stop it!”_ – Greg said through clenched his teeth.

_“Greg, let him…”_ – Mycroft tried to ease him.

_“No! I’m sick of it, John was sick of it, I fear you eventually will develop cancer just by worrying twenty-four- seven about him…” _\- Greg was on the verge of breaking too.

And that single word stung like any other he had heard before “was”. John Watson _was_ just a memory in everybody’s mind.

_“Then stop acting like my knights in shiny armour!”_ – Sherlock wasn’t even mad at them, he was furious with himself for not being enough for John to stay alive.

_“Sherlock… he’s gone… but you’re still here, and he would’ve hated you behaving this way. Please, don’t. This is me begging you to look at me”_ – Mycroft soft spoke reaching a hand out to Sherlock.

_______________________________

_“No, don’t close your eyes… don’t fall asleep, John…” - Mycroft murmured as the unfamiliar fear of panic began to overwhelm him. _

_Normally, he would have expected John to play the fearless soldier act, to tell him everything was fine, nothing to worry about. That was the John which Mycroft recognized, the one who was never going to let him see how vulnerable he felt. This John Watson lying in his arms did not looked at him that way. It was as if he only stayed alive to say goodbye to the only person who would never stop looking for him._

_“Calm down, Sherlock…” - John smiled weakly, staring right into Mycroft’s eyes. _

_And until then, Mycroft understood. Sherlock and he shared the same fragrance, a little pun made by Lestrade on how they should smell the same to get along better. Cassie flowers and a hint of belambre. He wasn’t a man of faith, but if he could give John’s last moments the well-deserved peace he craved for, he would do it. He would help the only person in the entire world who made his little brother truly happy. _

_“I’m here… It’s ok…” - _ _Mycroft whispered._

_“You’ll have to order dinner by yourself from now on …”_

_______________________________

**221B Baker Street – Two years before.**

_“Sherlock, why do you keep ordering from this nasty place?”_ – John huffed picking a bunch of takeaway flyers and pilling them up above the fridge, still inspecting the one for Chinese food he was trying to avoid.

_“Because we have coupons”_ – Sherlock answered without looking up from the microscope.

_“I would think that our new popularity will give us a few extra pounds to afford a decent Chinese meal once in a while_” – John smirked as he put his phone right over Sherlock’s microscopic sample – _“you call, I’m not your housekeeper”_

_"I have social anxiety, you’re the social one. I’ll order when I can do it by text” _– Sherlock stood up and tried to return the phone – _“and if money is an issue you could always ask Mycroft if the offer to spy on me is still on_”

A cute smile appeared on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth – _“by the way, you used Mrs. Hudson’s catchphrase, will need to start paying royalties”_

_“I think Mycroft’s ship sailed a long time ago…” _

_“So … chicken or noodles? Hurry up, this is awful_” – whispered while covering the speaker with his hand.

_“Noodles … always noodles, don’t ever order chicken… I fear it may be rat_” – John felt goose bumps at the idea of eating rodents and walked out the kitchen.

_______________________________  
  
_“Always noodles ...” – John said. Even on the verge of death, he smiled at the sole memory of the trivial things that made living with Sherlock quite an adventure._

_“Yes” – Mycroft just whispered, afraid his voice would break if he spoke more._

_“Thank you … “_

_Mycroft stroke his cheek, not sure if comforting or preventing him from fading away without properly saying goodbye to the man he thought was taking care of him._

_“For being the best part of my life …”_

_Mycroft held with him until his arms went numb and not even then let go. He didn’t know how much time he spent there, could’ve been only two or three minutes. He regained consciousness of time and himself when Lestrade approached putting a blanket around him and John’s lifeless body. Two minutes later, Sherlock came down running, stopping on his tracks adjusting to the dim light; he was on the edge of panic and when he saw a bloody hand hanging besides his brother, he could do nothing but push Mycroft to the opposite side of the room away from his friend’s body._

_Sherlock slumped to the ground hugging John’s corpse._

_“Help him…” - a soft whimper._

_“Sherlock… I…” - Mycroft stammered._

_“Mycroft… help him … please_ _ fix it …” - Sherlock rested his forehead on John’s._

_“I can’t…” - Mycroft tried to approach him but his legs didn’t respond him anymore._

_“Please” - Sherlock lifted his gaze, his bottom lip trembling and his eyes full of fear._

_Mycroft was covered in John’s blood - _

_______________________________

**The Country Side – 30 years ago.**

_“Mycie!”_  
  
Sherlock’s voice came like a distant echo interrupting Mycroft’s thoughts.  
  
“Ok, this is getting annoying Sherlock … repeat after me … MY-CROFT” – said out loud as he stood up from his desk. Books spread all over. He stood at the door frame looking for the little kid that called him incessantly all day long.  
  
“Mycie!!!” – Sherlock called again, louder.  
  
“Coming!” – he screamed as loud as he could and ran down the stairs. The sound came from the garden.

_Sherlock was kneeled under a tree, holding an injured pigeon in his hands. It looked like it had been attacked by a cat or other large animal._  
  
“Mycie, he’s hurt! Fix him! You always fix everything” – the kid’s eyes were teary. Fearful of something, Mycroft wished would take a long time to face with. He stood blankly at the bird and took it from Sherlock’s hands  
  
“Come, quick”  
  
They run to the kitchen as Mycroft pulled a towel from the sink and put the little bird in it trying to heat it with his hands and breath, giving small pumps to his chest. It had a deep wound right below the right wing. After a few minutes, the bird chirped, and Sherlock let out a huge sigh. He began to jump with joy and clung to Mycroft's waist.  
  
The little pigeon died the next day; Mycroft told Sherlock it flew away. 

_______________________________

Lestrade came followed by a hoard of paramedics.

_“Sherlock, we need to take him”_ – Greg tried to put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, but he shook it off sharply.

Sherlock didn’t say anything but refused to let go as he was tightening the grip on John’s inert body. Everything seemed to be passing in slow motion. Did John had to endure this same amount of suffering when he tried to reach him after the fall? after screaming everyone to let him pass because Sherlock was his friend and he needed to see him? How did he bear the pain?

Sherlock would’ve been happy to drop dead in that same instant to stop feeling the rising wave of pain in his chest. He was sure he could have a heart attack at that exact moment, and it wouldn’t matter. How overwhelmingly heavy was the burden of someone’s guilt when you realize how your previous decisions hurt others?

It hurt like hell that Lestrade was the one kneeling next to him, rubbing his back, gently loosening his hands from John’s body. It hurt so much there would not be more long comforting talks and cups of tea upon arriving to Baker Street after an exhaustive day.

Finally, Sherlock’s numb hands released the grip and the paramedics took their chance to pull John out of his reach.

_“Careful!”_ – Lestrade scolded them.

_“It doesn’t matter, he compromised the evidence”_ – said the youngest paramedic who was with the forensic team.

Sherlock escaped from Lestrade’s embrace and threw himself to the paramedic. He beat him merciless until his nose was broken, dripping with fresh blood, coughing in shock. Lestrade and two other police officers retrieved Sherlock trying to contain his fury.

_“He’s not evidence! He’s my friend!”_ – a single word burned his apparently inexistent soul. John was much more than just his friend; it seemed an appropriate label to describe them for years. Now, it seemed so small for what John Watson had really did for him.

_______________________________

**221B Baker Street – One month before.**

John pushed him against the wall, his shorter height would not stop him from showing off in front of his flatmate. He rubbed Sherlock’s torso under his shirt, never breaking the feral kiss they were sharing, feeling every muscle in his slim but ripped abdomen. How on Earth was this man so gorgeous if there were days when he saw Sherlock ate a single piece of toast and took a sip of water along with copious amount of tea?

_“Might be the tea”_ – John muttered.

_“What?”_

_“Nothing” _– said still kissing his neck – thinking out loud

_“Concentrate, Watson”_ – and Sherlock dig his tongue deeper in John’s mouth

He pulled himself from the tongue getting into his throat and pinned Sherlock’s arms above him while kissing his neck, leaving a trace of marks and bites all along down his collarbone. His other hand started to rub Sherlock’s cock above the fabric of his trousers. Sherlock let out a loud moan as he wrapped his leg around John’s waist. Damn, in fact he was short.

They rubbed against each other panting in anticipation. John left Sherlock’s neck for a second to attend more important matters, such as Sherlock’s lovely cupid’s bow. Their kiss was so needy, small peeks between smiles and smirks. It was sensual and tender in a perfect mix. John released Sherlock’s arms, and the detective rushed himself to wrap them around John’s neck, pulling him into a deeper but kind kiss.

John smiled and hugged him back, leaning down his head into Sherlock’s neck crook, memorizing every bit of his scent. In some other time, he would’ve mocked him for being such a snob and use that ridiculously expensive cologne. He couldn’t really put a name on what he smelled, but it was some sort of manly floral blend.

_“Cassie flower”_ – Sherlock spoke, clearly realizing why John was spending so much time cataloguing the scent – _“Lestrade’s gift”_

_“Think I don’t even know how to write it. It suits you lovely… bedroom?”_

_“Can’t wait that long”_ –with that final statement, Sherlock grabbed John’s arm pulling it closer to him while using his leg to trip them down. It took John by surprise and before he tried to counterattack, he was already facing the floor. Sherlock straddled him and began to undo John’s shirt buttons with his mouth. He gripped John’s crotch, his prick encased by his trousers, rising more and more with each button left behind.

_“Strip down for me as I finish with these boring button situation”_ – he purred.

John obeyed and arched his back. Once he was naked, Sherlock shifted himself to sit on the carpet and made John do the same, hugging him.

_“Now, close your eyes”_ – and John submitted.

He tilted his neck a bit leaving space for Sherlock to manoeuvre. Sherlock tickled with the tip of his nose and then his tongue, all the way up John’s shoulder to the beginning of his hairline, making a small pause to nibble his earlobe.

_“Touch yourself”_ – he purred again using his signature baritone voice.

John complied. His rising erection mimicked his own gasps, as he fought the urge to stop breathing steadily and just rush over Sherlock’s body all over again. But this was interesting, it was some sort of new experiment he was so willing to try.

_“I’ll take this…”_ – said Sherlock, grabbing one of John’s hands by the wrist – _“now, keep going … slowly …”_

John parted his lips, letting soft moans escape his chest. He pleasured himself with steady strokes leaning back against Sherlock’s shoulder. He enjoyed the feeling of being with someone who truly seemed to care about his pleasure and well-being. Who would’ve thought the madman, sometimes incorrigible bastard he lived with could be so romantic?

Sherlock’s breath gently stroked the skin above John’s shoulder blade. Sherlock’s sporadic humming noises sent a chill down his spine as he sped up the strokes on himself without realizing it.

_“Not yet_” – Sherlock grabbed him by the wrist, kissing his shoulder.

_“Fuck, please … I can’t”_ – and John’s moans were silenced by Sherlock grabbing his jaw and pulling his head back much more down his own shoulder, licking his jaw line.

_“Not … yet”_ – said deeply and trailed John’s hand to his leaking manhood, helping him set the pace he was pleased with.

The heat of Sherlock’s hand over his own, moving up and down his aching prick was almost too much to tolerate, or at least that’s what he thought just before realize Sherlock rocking himself against his lower back at the pace of his own instructed strokes.

He held John’s hand harder and speed the pace at his own rhythm; John arched his back to Sherlock, gasping for sweet culmination. Sherlock pressed his forehead against John’s back and groaned in pleasure as he kept pleasuring John.

Fuck the instructions.

John came in hard waves over Sherlock’s hand, cuddling himself on Sherlock’s arms as he smiled in content. Sherlock lifted his slick hand staring at John’s spill covering it. He spread it all over like moisturising lotion and licked his thumb to taste more of John.

He rolled over and pushed Sherlock down to the carpet again, pulling off his trousers and parting up his legs, leaning to lick the wet fabric over Sherlock’s prick. His legs muscles were contracting at Johns touch. John tucked Sherlock’s pants down, and gently sucked one of his testicles, swinging it all around his mouth as Sherlock arched his back against the floor, squirming. John let it go and held Sherlock’s hips firmly to prevent him from thrusting against him.

He took him in his mouth in one long swallow, hollowing his cheeks and rapidly pulling out. Sherlock cried at the loss of warmth around his cock, but John didn’t seem to care about this a bit. He sucked again and pulled off. Sherlock threw his arms and covered his eyes, whispering a soft “fuck” as he tried to calm down, understanding that John was doing it on purpose. He would not comply to such poor and dull vengeance. How dare he. He didn’t need to come … not yet.

_“How are you doing?”_ – John asked.

_“Perfectly fine”_ – Sherlock lied, still covering his eyes.

_“Sure, you are”_ – and sucked again, this time much faster, making Sherlock gasp in a useless effort to control himself.

Sherlock shut his eyes even more, throwing his hands to his sides, trying to grab from the carpet, unwilling to lose this battle of will power. Yet, he was so close to … and then John stopped and released his cock again.

_“Fuck John!”_ – he managed to say, his rage was minimized by the sound of John’s laugh, kneeling up extending a hand to Sherlock to sit up.

He tried to fix Sherlock’s mess of curls as he cupped his cheeks and kissed him tenderly. Sherlock took the opportunity and shifted John, grabbing him by the waist, putting him back against the front of the couch. He straddled John and kept going with the interrupted snogging.

They kissed until their lips were swollen. Sherlock removed his trousers and began to impale himself incessantly using John’s palpitating manhood. With one hand, he held firmly by John’s neck and with the other, his long and graceful fingers slicked up John’s entrance, he still had them slightly lubricated with John’s come, but nevertheless, he licked them, letting his two fingers make their way up to John’s prostate, making him grunt at the unison of Sherlock’s own moans.

_“Another”_ – pleaded John, and Sherlock slid in another finger and couldn’t help to pull John’s hair a bit as he took a rougher rhythm bouncing on John’s lap, near to come as well.

He cried out, spilling, shaking, then dropping himself next to John. He was panting, looking at the ceiling; a huge grin appeared on his face.

_“Fuck…”_ \- sighed John.

_“What? What is it? Was it traumatizingly bad?”_ – he suddenly felt as all his blood left his body.

_“Think I’m in love with you…”_ \- said John.

_“Oh … “_

_“Yeah …”_

_“And would that… be a problem?”_

John reached down to brush the sweaty curls away from his face and stared at him. He needed to make sure Sherlock knew he wasn’t lying. He could see his flushed cheeks, dilated pupils and increased heart-beat. He couldn’t help smiling at the sole thought of how freeing was to finally say it out loud.

_“No, that would be brilliant … just like you”_ – and leaned down to kiss him.

_______________________________

**Hour 26:00:03:00 – 221B Baker Street:**

Sherlock fell to his knees, clutching himself. Sobbing.

Mycroft stumbled up to him, holding him tight, just as he did with John a few hours ago. He was hoping his own heartbeats would help Sherlock to remember he was still alive, and selfishly needed to stay that way. Lestrade decided to stare them from afar.

_“Make it stop!”_ – he clenched on Mycroft; gripping desperately.

Mycroft endured the pain of Sherlocks clutch, rocking him trying to ease away the pain. Once again, he was twelve and Sherlock five, crying over how his knee hurt because he fell riding his bike, only this time Mycroft couldn’t do anything to stop the pain.

_“Let me go with him, please let me be with him …”_ \- Sherlock wept.

Both cried, broken. No more armours to protect them, no more reasons to pretend being indestructible. Mycroft hadn’t done it in 25 years; at least not that he could remember and at some point, he even began to question himself if he was still capable of doing it, yet, he was now lying on the floor comforting his baby brother as silent tears started to run down his cheeks.

Sherlock was right, the world was going to be a horribly dark place from now on without John Watson in it.

He couldn’t do anything. This time he truly couldn’t fix everything, especially Sherlock’s broken heart.

_“My mind is such a dark place … I don’t want to be there … I don’t want you to be there now. I need a moment” –_ he got away from Mycroft’s embrace and headed upstairs.

Lestrade decided it was a wise time to approach and sat next to Mycroft on the floor.

_“What are we going to do?”_ – he sighed.

_“I don’t know”_ – Mycroft rubbed his eyes – _“I really don’t know”_

_“What’s upstairs?”_

_“John’s bedroom”_

Lestrade paled _– “didn’t he kept a gun?”_

The two ran up the stairs, stopping when they saw Sherlock standing in front of John's chest of drawers. They could not see what he had in his hands. Lestrade took the bet.

_“Sherlock … drop … the gun …”_

Sherlock turned his head above his shoulder.

_“No, that was his… this one’s mine”_

_“No, stop!”_ – both shouted as Sherlock pulled out a knife stabbed himself in the chest right in front of their shocked gazes.

**Author's Note:**

> The fragrance does exist, it is called "Pierre de Lune" by Armani Privé.


End file.
